hearts can be well-hidden ( but you betray them with your words )
by Niahara Erskine
Summary: Time holds them gently, cradles them through its centuries and millenniums. Watchful, gazing, it guides them on their paths, that start so different, opposing really, until bit by bit, coax by gentle coax, they bend, they break, they split, they mingle and unite. Two roads now one, leading to the forewarned End. An Arrangement thousands of years in the making.
1. A Whisper at the Very Beginning

**A/N And yesss I have access back to my main account. This story was posted for a little while on my spare account, but I am switching it here. Basically this is going to be my NaNoWriMo entry this year. I have debated long whether I wanted to participate or not, but this idea kind of hit me over the head so I decided what the heck, it's the perfect opportunity. It's my first Good Omens story ( although I adore the book and radio drama, I never tried my hand at GO fanfiction before. )**

 **Warning: Contains somewhat controversial views and retellings of biblical events. Controversial not as much in leaning towards blasphemous at in leaning towards my own headcanons and loose interpretations. Starting with the very Beginning. If they are not your cup of tea, I recommend you steer clear of this story.**

 **Disclaimer: Yeah, definitely not mine! Hats bowed to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett for the complete and utter awesomeness that is Good Omens.**

* * *

 **Prologue: A whisper at the very Beginning**

Everything is arrested in motion, caught in a state of utter stillness, frozen in time for a fragment of a moment, smaller than mere mortal minds could have ever perceived. A moment, stone-like stillness taking over the planet as a hand waves over all of Creation and blows gently over it. And then time starts its unending march again…

It starts with silence. Incredulity, wide eyes gazing at the surroundings – not destroyed, not charred and burned, not the wasteland that was supposed to have been, but rather green, lush grass and blooming flowers even in the middle of the cold season, a cat darting across a lawn and the chirp of birds in trees.

It starts with a deep breath following the silence, the quirk of a smile and cerulean eyes, blue like the sky above their heads that is no longer stained by a red sun, gazing in yellow orbs, with the blistering hope and faith only one from Above can have.

It starts with a laugh, shy, muted at first, chocked as if trying to keep it in check, but becoming louder and louder, as the rumble burst from within his throat and echoed in the stillness of their surroundings. The laughter of genuine happiness, not sarcasm or irony, not the laughter that had stained their last days when they had done so in order to keep the tattered remains of their shattered hope together.

It starts with life bursting from the very being of the Planet, with the giggles of children running down the streets and the promise of an upcoming Dusk, followed by a new Dawn. It starts with old people berating the youth for their unruliness, with a tea kettle starting to whistle on the stove, with a leaf blown in the wind and the echo of gentle laughter in the air.

It starts with hope and the mark of another Day, and another and another…

Or perhaps it Ends so. Who is it to say?

Is it an End or merely a new Beginning?

It is up to you to decide…

After all, stories are always more than they seem and the Beginning and the End are not as easy to define as many would have expected them to be.

* * *

But if this should be the End or the start of a new Beginning, then when did this story start to unfold?

Sense dictates that it should have begun, like all good stories are wont to do, at the beginning.

However, our tale starts long before the mere whisper of a Beginning could be formed.

Before the thought of an End could even be uttered.

It starts in darkness, oppressive and unending, with a presence lingering in the silence. It starts with a question voiced, or perhaps only thought, for no sound had ever before been heard in our tale.

"Has it come? The moment?" And the presence, grand yet terrible, allowed its thought to echo, bringing forth the promise of a night that had yet to fall, of the chime of stars still lingering unlit and the hoot of an owl that had not been whispered into being.

"It has come." Yet another, just as grand, yet merciful where the other was terrible. A perfect opposite, or the other side of a coin, warmth to the first's cold and brilliance to counter the lingering dark. An adversary and a counterpart. The hint of suns bursting in the skies, of light shimmering in unopened eyes, of worlds yet to be born.

"They will fear. They will cry. They will rage. They will suffer." The thoughts of the first, tendrils of malice wrapped in words, long before such notions were even thought to be defined. A promise of anguish and pain, given with the surety of one that knows what is to come. A hint of the future at the burst of an upcoming dawn. "They will hate."

"So they will," a murmur from the second, the first hint of a sound breaching the encompassing darkness, glimmers bursting around them as specks of light came to be spread. "But they will also laugh. They will cherish. They will show mercy." The same resolution, the same knowledge, an ancient voice, with no Beginning and no End, bringing worlds into being with the boom of his words. "They will love."

And so they stood, darkness and light entwined, good and evil as some will later come to call them, though matters had never been so simple, watching the echo of their Thoughts moving into Being, bringing the Beginning with their words and prophesying the End with their following Silence.

Good and evil. Light and Dark. God and His Adversary. Watching the worlds come into being, steadfast Presences in the Ages to come.

And so our story begins. With the Light bursting through the Darkness and the Swirl of Creation shaping all that IS and all that ever could BE.


	2. Betrayal at the Dawn of Time

**Chapter I:** **Betrayal at the Dawn of Time**

They say God created the Seen and the Unseen, parted the waters from the sky and made the Heavens. And such passed the second Day.

But ask yourselves, what is it that they do not say?

They do not say that Heaven and Hell were created at the same time, counterparts, mirrored images painted in contrasting colors, so different and yet so alike. They do not speak of the burst of light and darkness in a world still taking form, opposites interwoven, creating the Balance of the Universe.

My dears, stop and think.

There can never be Good without Evil, or light without darkness; they are two sides of the same coin spinning in the Ages of the worlds. So how could Heaven had come to be without its counterpart?

They were both born in the swirl of Creation, perfect counterbalances for the other and between them worlds were bursting into Being for it was only the second Day and much had yet to come.

What they do not say is this; God took his seat in Heaven and his Adversary in Hell. And all was well, for such was the Plan and had ever Been and would ever Be.

Heaven did not remain empty for long. God created the Angels, beings of Divine Power, of Grace, soldiers, messengers and guardians of the world just taking shape, the first of His Children. And for each, he set a purpose.

But, neither did Hell remain empty for long; in his domain, the Adversary gave shape to Fell beings, to hounds and imps, to creatures of darkness and malice. He bound them to his Will, gave them a twisted purpose, a mockery of all the angels strove towards.

And for a while all was Silent as time ticked and the passing Days heralded the birth of the world.

But things could not remain so for long, as temptation comes in many forms, my dears. Sometimes it glides unseen, a wisp of darkness whispering poisoned words in the ears of all those willing to listen. Sometimes it presents itself as an angel with the light of the stars mirrored in his gaze, murmuring words about rebellion. And sometimes it just IS, a presence with no form, giving away no knowledge about the place from whence it came.

Here is the truth, dear ones. Though his dwelling was in Hell, the Adversary was never barred from Heaven. His role was to test after all. He lingered among them, planting doubt in their minds, planting seeds of discord and leaving no recollection of his presence as he left.

But sometimes… sometimes he allowed himself to forget, just for the briefest of moments. Sometimes he allowed himself to drift towards those he knew he had no chance of tempting, towards those whose Faith burned more powerful than that of any other. He allowed himself to revel in their presence, accepting Michael's boisterous bravado and being the reason for Gabriel's easy laughter. Yearning for Raphael's soothing touch and seeking Uriel's gentle smile. Sometimes he allowed himself to forget and became Lucifer, their brother.

But he knew it could not last.

The seeds he had planted were already taking root foretelling the end.

* * *

Humanity asks itself: why are they being tempted so? Why must there be Evil in the world? Why did the angels first Fall? And the answer to them is simple. Blame hoisted on the shoulders of one known once as the Lightbringer and later as the Adversary. Humans think they have the answer down pat, but in truth all religions have been warped by the passage of time and the real truth has long been lost.

The story goes like this.

There was once an angel, the greatest and most powerful of all God's creations, an angel that had all that it took to become mightiest among God's Host. But pride and greed and rebellion stole over this angel's soul, took root and festered. He wished to seize that which he could not have, he grew envious of God and his power, so he rebelled and Fell.

Fell from the Grace that was Heaven into the very pits of Hell. And there, he shed the name he had held till then, stripped away everything that once made him mightiest among the Host of Heaven, including his name, Lucifer, and took up another title. Satan, the Adversary. The Devil, the enemy to God's will.

And then the story goes forth.

They say that it is his fault that humans are forever tempted, forever drawn to darkness and malice and evil.

However, as you already know, tales are not always as straightforward as they might seem. Much is lost in time as history passes from recollection, warping itself into legends and stories told in hushed whispers in the dead of the night.

And these stories, well they change as well, as they pass from one to another, from author to author, from book to book.

The story goes like this. There was Lucifer, brightest and greatest among the Host, the first to Question and be stricken down for his audacity.

But the tale is wrong.

If you ask any angel or fallen they will tell you that there never had been such an angel among the Host, that neither of them can remember where Satan had come from. They will tell that he had been there from the Beginning, a Presence opposing God's light, a trickster who waited for their Fall. And once they did, he caught them, gently so, soothed the burns on their Wings and the ash in their soul, blew upon them and watched as grey wings, flaming, turned to midnight black. Watched as their eyes of cerulean blue and verdant green turned to yellow and red and black.

If you ask any demon, they will tell you that he caught them all in his arms, each of the fallen angels and brought them in their new domain. Once there, he gave them purpose and new names.

( none will mention that there is a shadow in their recollection, that neither of them can seem to grasp the wisp of a memory that eludes them so, the memory of a silhouette, a bright presence gliding among the Heavens at Michael's side, gaze delighted and sorrowful at the same time. they will not remember the echo of laughter following Gabriel's escapades in the Heavens and the gentle chiding whenever Raphael refused to offer aid where it was due. they will not mention the memories that none of them hold anymore, of one who for the briefest of times – in the eyes of time stretching in Heaven at the very least – was part of them, before returning to this domain Below )

* * *

The War in the Heavens started with a disappearance. With memories whipped from existence and the murmurs of rebellion growing. With dissent spreading among the ranks, with words turning vicious, with brothers and sisters turning against each other without a moment's hesitation. That which the Adversary had sowed spread far and wide, encompassing the entirety of the Heavens and sparing none of the ranks. Temptation towards the forbidden, the desire for greatness, greed and envy and wrath twisting in their souls.

The story goes like this.

There were angels who Fell, who rebelled against their purpose, who sought more for themselves. Angels who questioned, who judged, who deemed their place in the Divine Plan insufficient, too unbecoming. They wished to seize the whole of Creation for themselves, but instead they were toppled down, smote from the Heavens by the Father himself, cursed to the wretchedness and flames of hell.

The stories tell us many things. Some of them, grains of sand between the dessert that is the history of Creation, fragments like this tale, may yet be true.

Hush, listen. Seek the truth for yourself.

Listen.


	3. Burning on the winds of Rebellion

**Chapter 3: Burning on the winds of Rebellion**

It started with a whisper; honeyed words dripping with poison taking root in the minds of ones who might have once been grand. It started with a promise; the promise of freedom, of power, of superiority. It started with a glimmer of a thought, a small idea taking shape.

It ended with a hurricane, with war and chaos and death.

It ended with a Fall. With bonds broken and siblings slayed. With pristine white feathers stained by death and flames.

It started with an idea.

It ended with a revolution.

It did not matter that all that had come was meant to Be, part of a plan so grand and absolute that none of the angels could ever hope to understand. It did not matter, because the pain was too great to catalog, the loss almost too hard to withstand. It did not matter because when a brother takes sword against you, vowing to slay you or die trying, of what importance are Ineffable Plans anymore? It does not matter because they all lost, both the fallen and the angels.

And the two Presences, watching them unknown and unseen, a fragment of a second away from revealing themselves, knew that all too well. But they stood and watched, one burning bright like a thousand suns, warmth and love and benevolence, one blazing cold like the light of stars, darkness and wrath and malice. They watched and they waited for the second to pass, for the moment to come.

It started with a whisper.

It ended with a Fall.

* * *

Legends tell us many things; they recall the times of heroes riding valiantly against their foes, slaying dragons and saving princesses. They tell us of villains, mad kings and bitter tyrants, slaughtering those who oppose them until one too great to be defeated moves in their path. They speak of good and evil clenched in an everlasting battle to be waged until the End of all things.

But they do not tell you of the little ones.

Those deemed unimportant, those passing unseen when compared with deeds of valour or tyranny.

They do not speak of the butcher's son, even if he saved the life of the gardener's daughter, when all were in turn saved by a mighty prince.

They do not speak of the little girl, hurling a rock with uncanny accuracy at the head of a soldier, stopping him from slaying a mighty general who later became a benevolent King.

They are forgotten, lost to the passage of time.

But let us not get ahead of ourselves. Such stories are still to come, long in the future of the nascent world. Our story is still at the Beginning, when no human had yet opened their eyes to Sun and Moon and Stars.

Take a seat my dears and listen.

Let me tell you a story.

It is not a story about valiant heroes off to slay dragons nor is it a story about dastardly villains wishing to destroy the Earth. Rather it is a story of choice and choices, of small angels who pose questions and a fall that is not quite a Fall.

* * *

Salathiel was among the last of the angels to be created, a simple malakhim among many others; young in the eyes of his peers, young and different. An angel who sought to discover, who questioned all he could find to question, who wanted to create and imagine. An angel that soon found a place for himself in the gardens of Heaven where he coaxed plants to his will, made them grow and bloom, miracled away the hurts from the trees and made them strong. An angel who blew over butterflies and delighted as he watched them change colour, who painted the petals of roses in shades of lavender and blue. He was not powerful, not by any stretch of imagination, but what he lacked in power he made up in creativity.

When the civil war came, when shadows stole over the archangels' faces due to a loss none could quite remember or explain, when Beelzebub took up arms against Uriel and Asmodeus slashed Gabriel with fury, when brothers and sisters turned against brothers and sisters, Salathiel did not fight. He would have not made much of a difference either way and he could not bear to get involved; not when those he knew and loved were bent on destroying one another, not when all that was beautiful in their Heaven was being burned in wake of the destruction. Not when his blue roses withered under the flames and his trees were cut down by burning white swords. Not even when the gardens were laid waste to, all his work dust and ash.

He stood aside, watched the hurricane of destruction tear through the Heavens, stood helpless as wrath and greed and pride turned their sanctuary into a battlefield.

And perhaps it would have remained so had he not seen him.

One of the cherubs, one like any other really, flaming sword in hand and cerulean eyes flashing with fury, plump fingers closed tight over the hilt of his blade and hands steady with determination. Just like any other and yet…

 _( millenniums upon millenniums later, thinking back to barely remembered events, Crowley would wonder whether it had been for the best that he had not known Aziraphale then. that until the Garden all they had known of each other had been a mere glimpse. perhaps if they had met, they would have become friends and the Fall would have hurt ever the more. perhaps if they had, he might had never questioned, never doubted, never fallen. there is no way of truly knowing. the Past was the Past and wishful thinking would not turn the wheel backwards. he would not even want it to. )_

Salathiel stood up from his shelter and watched. Watched as this cherub, less powerful than most of those against whom he had taken arms, was holding his ground against Leviathan, his body a shield to the fallen Uriel. As he dared her to attack him, giving himself up as a target to allow the fallen archangel to gather his spent strength.

He watched as Leviathan snarled, her beautiful face twisted in rage and malice, her sword stained with the blood of Father only knew how many brothers and sisters. As she moved forth, movements taunting, beckoning in sadistic pleasure, the desire to dole out death plain on her features.

 _( millenniums later Crowley would bemoan having to deal with the same type of suicidal bravery when it came to his sometimes enemy, sometimes friend. but right now he was not to know how things would change )_

In that moment Salathiel knew he did not wish to see this angel die, not this cherub with his bravery in face of sure death and his blinding faith and neither any of the others. So the malakhim cried out, a mournful song of sorrow and dismay, haunting notes making the land rumble, forcing the ground to burst and split. And from it vines tore towards the skies, twisting against ankles and calves, bringing the fallen down to the ground, Grace infused thorns tearing in their very being.

The angel cried and his plants came alive in wake of his misery. Still, his power was but little and already the betrayers were cutting the vines and the thorns, fire searing the offending plants. Leviathan turned to him, rage burning in darkening eyes, her target forgotten.

And then the very skies rumbled and burst, lightning tearing over them and the thundering voice of the Father stopped all in their wake. With a word they were all cast down, they were all made to Fall, anger suffused so greatly in the Command that their wings caught fire as they fell.

The battlefield grew silent… all that remained were angels battered and bruised, some lost forever, some victorious and mourning. A cherub falling to his knees near an archangel, flaming sword clattering to the ground near him. A lull, a silence stealing over the battlefield, the deep breath once the storm has passed.

It did not last long. The silence was interrupted. One voice spoke up, one voice questioned, one voice demanded answers. One little voice that had stood hidden until the very end.

"Why Father? Why did you allow this? If you see all, why did you let it come to this?"

The little malakhim, a botanist of sorts had there been a term for such at that time, a lover of all things green, blazed with barely contained fury, anger and sorrow burning in green eyes. His wings quivered with barely repressed fury, a tint of grey spreading over them as he demanded an answer for all the grief, all the sorrow and the wanton destruction. But before another question could be uttered, before more answers could be asked, the ground beneath him parted – more gently than it had for the others, yet parting nonetheless – and last Salathiel saw of Heaven were the cherub's blue eyes wide in shock as he watched him Fall. And if there was the ghost of a remorseful touch, a whispered apology offered by a Presence, Salathiel would never remember.

The plan was Ineffable.

But it did not mean the Players behind it could not regret some events that were to come to pass.

Salathiel had fallen because he had questioned ineffability.

But that did not mean the Powers that Be could not be gentle.

 _( six thousand years and an almost Apocalypse later, Crowley would still complain about the event. It had been in his name[1], the desire to question, to know, to find answers for the unanswerable. Crowley found God quite the hypocrite for punishing him for something the Father himself had named him for, but one could not really file a complaint to Upper Management, now could they? )_

The Fall itself was not the brusque, ball of fire and ash, damnation be upon thee should thee ever step foot in the Heavens again, the others had felt when they had fallen. It had been more a trap door opening beneath his feet and himself tripping down the stairs till he reached Below. It had been a gentle landing where others had crashed.

 _( Crowley had called it sauntering vaguely downwards for a reason. It was the same reason for which Hastur would have gleefully peeled his skin off given the opportunity. Apparently the Duke of Hell had suffered the worst landing of all the Legion )_

When he opened his eyes, Salathiel found himself unable to see. Unknowingly to him, the verdant green of his eyes has turned to yellow and his new slit pupils demanded time until he became accustomed to them. He blinked, once, twice, thrice until the fog left his eyes and he saw himself inside an office of sorts, the type which would be stylish six thousand years down the road. At that time it was only confusing, doing nothing but making the hurt in his heart grow and fester.

"You did not Fall with the others," a Presence said, a wisp of darkness that did not register in the fallen angel's mind until it coalesced in a form.

The one that stood before Salathiel was a man-shaped being, dark haired and copper eyed, features beautiful to look upon them, but terrible. A sardonic face on his features and a glint in his eyes, akin to pity, yet far from it. He stepped forth, feet moving without echo, stopping in front of the fallen angel huddled on the ground.

"Truth be told you did not even Fall. More like tripped down from Heaven. But no matter; you are here now which means you are Mine." Copper eyes blazed with power, a dark sort of glee and just a hint of curiosity. "Aren't you, my little Crawly?"

And the name echoed with Intent, a brand of possession marking the fallen angel's very being, memories of being Salathiel obscuring as the new identity seared itself in the demon's soul. Yellow eyes with slit pupils gazed upwards as black wings unfolded and quivered behind the fallen angel's back in fear, a terse nod the only acknowledgement of the Adversary's words.

As for Lucifer… a terrible look appeared on his features, a pleased smile that foretold of dark things to come.

* * *

[1] Salathiel from what I have found means "I have asked of God"

* * *

 **A/N** **I know many authors have their own takes on what Crowley's angelic name might be. I have chosen Salathiel because I really loved the meaning of the name and found it fitting given the way I wished to portray his inquisitive nature in Heaven.**


	4. An apple's poisoned bite

**Chapter 4: An apple's poisoned bite**

Come close, dear, listen. This is a story you know all too well. How could you not when it is painted across the centuries, words strewn haphazardly in our history, inked in scroll and parchment and paper.

They tell you 'hush child, I will speak of the Origin of Man and the Origin of Sin. I will tell you of a Garden and an Apple, of curiosity and temptation.' They will speak of a forbidden fruit, of a bite and a banishment. Of a snake and a punishment. And they will not be wrong and yet not quite right.

Come child, listen carefully, the tale is not how you might have thought it was.

They say God created Man in His image and then He created Woman from Man. And both he placed in the Gardens of Eden where he allowed them to road freely. But from a Tree they could not eat, for the Father strictly forbid it of them. For a while they lived in Bliss as they did not stray from the Command, but a demon murmured poisoned words in Eve's ear, making her take a bite. And she in turn gave the Apple to Adam and both were Banished for both strayed from the Command.

But I ask of you. Wherein lies the true Temptation? In the words of a demon or the very being of Humanity itself?

Come, listen. I'll tell you a tale.

* * *

They tell Crawly 'go up there and make some trouble.' He listens, although he might not want to, because he is a demon now and already the memories of the Heavens and his Gardens are fading from his mind. He sheds his true form and assumes that of a snake, slithers past the guardian of the Northern Gate and ventures in Eden.

( had he remembered, it would have hurt to see roses in shades of lavender and blue, it would have pained him to witness butterflies of all colors and trees stretching their arms towards the Heavens. he no longer remembers so it does not hurt, but somewhere deep inside his soul, an ache lingers. )

He makes his way unseen and for a time merely watches the humans, these new Children the Father loves so. He watches Eve walk the paths of the forest with brazen temerity, unafraid and undeterred, climbing the highest trees and bathing in the crystal water of the lakes. Dirt and dust cling to her feet, leaves and twigs caught in the red tresses of her hair and her gaze often strays to the Tree of Knowledge.

He follows Adam as the Man roams the fields of Eden, plucking fruit from the trees and herding the animals to him, carefree and inquisitive. His face is smudge with dust and his hands are caked with mud, but still he does not stop. His eyes stray to Eve and to the Tree, doubt and desire caught in brown orbs in equal parts.

Crawly does not need to Tempt humanity for humanity is already tempting itself. The yearning is already there, banking in their souls, the desire to reach and pluck the knowledge for themselves. He doesn't need to do much. Merely whisper encouragements, urging them to listen to the small, nagging voice in their minds, the one asking 'what could possibly go wrong?'

After all, why give humans Free Will if they do not know what it is they can choose from?

He tells them 'go, seek the truth for yourselves. Why would the Father deny it of you?'

Crawly nurtures the seeds of doubt already growing in their souls. He bids his time and waits. It does not happen overnight. Even then humanity is independent, resilient, not prone to falling to the poisoned whispers of the first stranger to cross their path. So the demon is left to roam the Garden, to discover Eden for himself. The angels still pay him no heed, sentinels standing at their posts in North, South and West, grim and solemn. They see him as a snake and think of him no more.

But the East, oh the East is more interesting than the other three combined.

The Guardian of the Eastern Gate lies at his post, but his gaze is drawn backward, towards the garden, as opposed to assessing the dangers that might come from outside. There is a look of indulgent fondness on his features as he follows the barely seen movements inside. But when Crawly passes him by, he turns, alert and inquisitive, gaze drawn to the Serpent at his feet.

"And who might you be?"

It is not perhaps the most auspicious start for a conversation, what with Crawly being a demon in hiding and Aziraphale's role being that of keeping him out. But the angel acts clueless and the fallen pretends to be merely a serpent, so it works; it is not the most auspicious beginning for anything, truth be told, but it just is and millenniums down the road they will marvel at their own little act of defiance.

( the Fall had obscured the visage of the cherub that had made Salathiel enter the war, the cerulean eyes flashing with fear and raw determination that made him question. it is perhaps for the best; had he remembered at that time, Crowley is sure he would have resented the angel of the Eastern Gate )

They spend days together, Crawly bringing news of the happenings inside the Garden, Aziraphale offering tales of Heaven. They should sear the demon's soul, make him writhe is disgust and hatred, but even then, the only reaction offered is merely a roll of eyes and a hiss of disdain. After all the bureaucracy in Hell is not that much different. They are merely Sides, at the end of the Day.

Crawly is with Eve when she grasps the apple. He is with her when pink lips and white teeth close around the red fruit, when small hands offer the apple to Adam. He is quivering in anticipation when the man takes his own bite of the fruit, when knowledge falls over both of them.

He is there when the Father booms his vengeance from the Skies, curses him and curses his new Children, casts them out with nary a chance at redemption.

He tells himself he did the Right thing. ( he doubts his resolution ) He tells Aziraphale it would be funny if the angel did the Wrong one. ( he does not wish to think what this would mean ). And then they both stand and watch as Adam and Eve leave.

The two walk past the Eastern Gates, hand in hand, backs straight and gazes looking towards the future. A sword is clutched in Adam's right hand, whereas Eve holds a bitten apple.

They are still barefoot and the harsh ground outside of Eden bites in their feet, jagged stones drawing blood, but they do not even winch, nor do they look back.

Centuries later, paintings will portray them as ashamed, fearful and cowed, quivering in face of the Father's wrath. But now, right now, they are neither. There is a whole world stretching at their feet, and the forbidden fruit kindled their curiosity. They will cry later and lament and rage. They will regret and plead for mercy. But for now, they walk brazenly ahead.

And behind them a demon and an angel watch.

* * *

Hidden to them, others watch as well. Two presences, barely discernible in the beginning, gaining form the longer they remain at the outskirts of Eden.

"A rather harsh punishment would you not say? For doing something they had been meant to do from the very beginning?" An inquisitive voice, deep and echoing, sound travelling in the darkest of nights. A frown marks slightly feminine features, just another shape chosen as many others. The Adversary stands, copper haired and golden eyed, in the image of those recently banished from Eden.

"Perhaps it was, but how can they know happiness without grief? How can they know fulfillment without suffering?" His companion points out, a gentle voice echoing from the being that is not quite man-shaped neither a Presence as before. Something in between, powerful and blinding to look at, gold haired and sapphire eyed, with features engulfed by brilliance. "There must always be a Balance. We have known it. Now they have learned it as well."

"This apple of yours," the first asks, gaze straying to the Tree of Knowledge, withering under their very eyes in the now barred Garden. "It did not give them any knowledge, did it?"

"Of course not. It was a fruit, like any other. It might as well have been a pear or a grape. The mere act of rebellion, the desire to grasp the forbidden for themselves, to defy my orders and use their Free Will, that is which granted them the knowledge." A wistfulness makes itself known, a regret towards things that cannot be changed. "The apple was merely the catalyst for Fate to follow its course. Still, I cannot deny it is hard to part from them."

"You could not have kept them here forever," the golden gaze watches the proceedings with thinly veiled approval. It had been too long already; he had waited enough for this. "We both know it. They were always meant to learn."

"Is this why you sent him?" Fathomless blue eyes alight with curiosity, amusement on barely there features. "Your little serpent? Were you getting impatient the humans were not seizing the chance for themselves, that they were lingering in Eden too long? Is this why you sent him to breach the gates and tempt them?"

"Well it is hardly my fault your guardian was distracted, was it not? It wasn't even the flighty one from the Eastern Gate. It was the other one, from the North." A roll of eyes, words mocking hiding the truth beneath. Yes, he had been getting impatient.

"Do not change the subject," God chides. "I know fully well Ophaniel was lax in her duties. She will be reprimanded accordingly. But that was not what I was asking. Was your impatience the reason for his presence in the garden?"

"Hardly," the other scoffs. "I was meant to give him a purpose and I did. I sent him to Eden to cause some trouble. What he did from there was up to him. However, I must give the boy points for his creativity. It truly knows no bounds. I was not prepared for him to be quite so efficient. Inventor of the Original Sin, indeed."

"He is smart," the other echoes His amusement, chime of bells and flutter of wings in His voice. "He always has been. Asked the right questions, though in perhaps the wrong manner."

"And yet you let him Fall." Crawly would never truly be one of his. The Adversary knows it all too well. He had known it when the malakhim had not fallen with the others, but rather tripped down reluctantly. He had felt the spark still alight in the depth of the former angel's soul.

"It was all part of the Plan." And the sorrow is back in the voice, deep regret and a hint of guilt. "You know it as well as I. We have both shaped the Plan. We have both Spoken this world into being."

"As were your little guardian's actions." Lucifer points out with glee, laughter, dark like the velvety fall of night, echoing in words. "Your Angel gave away his sword. His flaming sword. The one which should have been used to protect the Garden." But no longer; Lucifer knew all too well in whose hands that sword would fall.

"He was being merciful," God interjects patiently.

"Mercy." Ruby lips twist in mockery, a frown on Lucifer's features. "What platitude. He failed to do his job properly and did not banish Crawly from the Garden when he had the chance. He was feeling guilty. After all, were it not for him, they might not have been banished. Guardian of the Eastern Gate indeed! He failed quite spectacularly in his mission, did he not?"

"Quite the contrary. You know as well as I that whereas Salathiel was meant to succeed, Aziraphale was meant to fail."

"He is no longer Salathiel," the Adversary points with cutting words. "You made him Fall, did you not? He is Crawly now." The mocking amusement from before returns, a chuckle to his words as he adds. "Funny is it not? That in the end my agent did the Right thing, whereas yours did the Wrong one."

"Quite so. Ineffable if you think about it. But what should we do with them now. Our two wayward agents? My merciful angel and your beguiling demon?"

"Free Will. Humanity will need to have a reason to us it. To be given choices." The Adversary muses, eyes turning towards the two celestial beings still remaining in the garden, gaze stopping on the serpent coiled around a tree, next to his should have been adversary. "He will tempt and he will test."

"And Aziraphale will thwart. He will guard."

The words echo in the air as the two beings slowly fade from sight, a proclamation sealing itself in the future of the world, unknown to the small pawns locked in the Universe's grand game of chess.

On the dangerous road of the world, a man and a woman make their way towards the unknown.

In the sealed remnants of a garden an angel and a demon part ways as one heads towards the humans he had aided and another returns to the depths to make his report.

Unknown to them, the Powers deemed they would meet again.

But that, my dears, is a story for another day.


	5. The bells of War are tolling

**Chapter 5: The bells of War are tolling**

Life is not fair. Life is suffering. Whoever claims otherwise is either a fool or a liar. We blame others for our misfortunes, but in reality it lies upon our shoulders.

Here is a little truth for you: humanity has always been good at destroying itself. Between good and evil, between right and wrong, the choice has ever been a mix of the two. Humanity wrecks itself for good and ruins itself for evil.

Look to our history and see.

Here is another truth: Death is one of God's angels, a being of power sent to watch over both angels and humans alike. Azrael is Creation's shadow, born at the very Beginning to guide until the very End. He will always Be until all will collapse unto itself and only the Darkness from the very start will reign absolute.

Famine was born when the Father banished Adam and Eve from Eden, punished them by vowing their lands would ever be hard to work and hard to coax in bringing fruit. Famine is humanity's companion at the start, brutal and merciless. Pestilence came on the wings of Famine, a precursor of Death, inevitable and necessary.

But War?

War is different. Humanity gives birth to war in the chaos of the first centuries. Cain slays Abel and War opens her eyes, fire wild and dangerous. Man slays man and War roams the land, sword at her naked hip, red haired and unrelenting. Death follows in her wake, a constant companion to her unstoppable flames, humanity descending into madness until a Flood comes to cleanse all from the land.

And yet, when the rainbow bursts over the sky and the Ark at long last finds land, she is the first to break from the waters, cruel smile and challenging eyes. The sword shines at her hip as she walks the battlefields she creates herself.

Humanity is ever good at destroying itself. She merely lends them a hand.

Listen, can't you hear the bells of War?

* * *

Their next meeting is less pleasant from the first, though that is perhaps to be expected. They have been both stationed on Earth, the angel as a Principality and himself as his adversary. Abel's blood still stains the earth when Aziraphale lays eyes on him, gaze blazing with bitter fury and sorrow. He holds a dagger, a cheap replacement for the lost sword of the once cherub, but still they clash in the very skies. Sharp claws meet steel, serpentine gaze bearing in cerulean eyes.

Crowley ( no longer Crawly, it had never been a fitting name to begin with ) is no fighter, never had been, but now he must learn. Aziraphale is fuelled by rage and it is perhaps for the best, as movements that should have been precise and controlled are sloppy, hands shaking and eyes blurred by tears. It gives the demon enough of an edge to hold his ground, to give as well as he receives. Claws tear in white feathers, red blood stained with Grace oozing in their wake. Poison eats at flesh, leaving charred scratches behind where his hits met their mark.

He ends up discorporate in the end, dagger set alight by divine fire striking home, forcing him from a body crumbling to ash. There is victory on the angel's face, but it is a hollow one. The last image Crowley sees before finding himself Down Below is Aziraphale on his knees, blood and feathers clinging to him as his determination crumbles to bitter defeat.

( much later, in a small tavern during Medieval times, with cheap ale loosening his tongue, Crowley will tell the angel that it had never been him whispering in Cain's ears. 'humanity puts the evils of Hell to shame, angel, have you not learned?' )

Decades later, when humanity had boomed and the Earth was roamed by more than just a handful of humans, Aziraphale stumbles across Crowley again. This time he does not attack because he does not need to; not yet at least. The view unfolding before their eyes shakes him to the very core.

( War makes her presence known, a cherub's sword held in her grasp as she walks on the battlefield with abandon, teeth stained by blood and mouth curled in a pleased smile. She relishes in the battle, in the carnage that follows even though it is Heaven not humanity that started this war. )

Ineffable, Aziraphale mutters to steel himself as he watches the archangels fly for the very Heavens, smiting the renegade Grigori and their offspring, blackening the land with the blood of the Nephilim and the Elioud. Their power burns, brilliance and light searing the ground and Crowley flees for the moment, unable to withstand the holiness of the attack.

( War grins as the last of them is cut down by Michael, as the battle falls silent. Red hair falls in wild tangles down her shoulders and she quivers in anticipation. The Grigori and the Nephilim taught her little humans so much about warfare, about weapons and battle. She cannot wait for them to use the knowledge. )

Ineffable, the Principality snarls after Azazel is locked in Dudael, his children slaughtered and the earth having fallen silent. Clawed hands are closed around his throat, yellow eyes almost copper in their anger as Crowley curses Heaven for the destruction. They are standing in the ash and blood of the fallen, some of them merely children never given a chance and the demon asks what makes Heaven so very different from Hell. As poisoned claws slit his throat, Aziraphale finds he cannot find an answer. There is regret in the demon's eyes as the angel slips from his body towards Heaven, but it is hidden under layers and layers of burning fury.

( centuries and centuries down the road, the cries of the Nephilim will still ring in their ears, will still make them shiver. they talk about the past, but never about Dudael, never about that war. )

The angel returns just in time to see the waters rise. Crowley had already secured a spot for himself on the Ark. Perched on the mast, invisible to the eyes of the humans milling around, he watches the rain fall when a powerful beat of wings alerts him to Aziraphale's arrival. They do not speak; there is nothing more to say, not when the angel's side is proving just as merciless as his own.

Rain falls and falls, swallowing the desperate cries of the dying, washing away the supposed sins of the land and the angel watches with a pinched expression, furrowed brows betraying the turmoil inside. He does not cling to ineffability like a safety blanket, not as he always does; there is little fire in either of them as the world they walked for centuries is swallowed by the tidal waves of Divine Retribution.

They spend the voyage in silence, two immovable, unseen figures gazing at the horizon from the mast of the Ark. When the dove brings back a little branch, a sure sign of land, Crowley's wing unfurl behind him, propel him forward. Neither gets discorporate this time, but the lingering taste in their mouth is just as bitter.

( a new world rises from the ashes of the former, and yet neither of them truly forgives or forgets the sheer wrongness of the Flood. God knows this, so does Lucifer, but neither reprimands their agents for overstepping their bounds. The Powers that Be cannot afford to be merciful, but sometimes they can close their eyes when roles are forgotten and overlap. )

Crowley whispers in humanity's ears at Babel, but he does not get to see the result of his work before he is sent Below by the angel's attacks. Aziraphale strengthens Abraham's belief and guides him as he sets out from Harram, but is stopped halfway through by his adversary.

They spend centuries more, fighting one another, tearing their enemy from the skies, inflicting wounds and death, scars marring the world where they clash. Mountains crumble in wake of their fury, forests burn and valleys shake.

And little by little, they tire. Little by little, the battles lose their heat, the meetings end with words of contempt hurtled at each other instead of weapons. Little by little they allow humanity to follow its course without tearing each other apart.

Sometimes they speak. Sometimes they drink. Sometimes their arguments turn vicious and in the end one ends up being sent Below or Above for a new corporation.

But mostly, things change, inch by little inch.

* * *

Away from Earth, in a place that is neither Heaven nor Hell, but rather a middle ground, all that remained from the time that had once been before Creation took its due, a brown haired being stands in the undefined mists. Green eyes keep straying towards the distance and features still undiscernible are marred by impatience.

Finally, the mists part and another being strides forward. Raven haired and red eyed, Lucifer brims with fury, with palpable anger bleeding in his following words. "They have found them. Humanity found them. Those wretched scrolls, those thrice damned parchments Azazel left behind when he was imprisoned. His final parting gift, a proper revenge." A haunting laugh echoed in the nothingness of the place, sharp and bitter, the sound of defeat if there ever was one.

"I have seen. One in Sodom. One in Gomorrah." The voice is restrained, perhaps overly so, calm in face of the other's turmoil. Emerald eyes meet red ones and hold the gaze until the fire dims in Lucifer's gaze.

"They cannot be allowed to remain there," the Adversary finally states, all ice and determination. "You know what those scrolls are capable of. You know what humanity is capable of. Combined… Your Flood shall be seen as merciful compared to what I will do if those scrolls are used."

"From your words, one would think you cared. And yet you abandoned them. Made them forget." God chides gently, but does not deny his opponent's words. He sees the truth in them, the sheer Intent. Words spoken and a course of the future sealed.

"They cannot remember. They can never remember. I am their Enemy. Whatever I did before was no more than folly." Dismissive, quick and cutting. A lie wrapped so tight in the truth that even he might find it easy to believe it.

"You are the Enemy because the Balance demands it. You need not be their enemy. I rather think they would tell you likewise were they able to remember."

"It matters not. It is done. But I will not allow humans such power over them Yahweh, I will not. Send your messengers if you must, but if the scrolls are not destroyed in a fortnight, I will act."

With those words he is gone, mists engulfing him as he walks. God's gaze follows Lucifer for a moment before his Presence dims and fades. Behind them, the mists remain in the pocket of existence that is neither Earth, nor Heaven or Hell.

* * *

Chalk drawn circles mar the floor of a house in Sodom. Candles lit in rehearsed patterns litter the floor. A parchment, ash stained, with blood red writing lays unfurled. And in the darkness a pair of green eyes gleam as forbidden words are being chanted.

The circles on the ground flare with bright light, candles blazing bright before dying out. An angel, wide eyed and frightened appears in the circle, white wings unfurled for flight. But the patterns flare once more, unseen bindings wrapping around the malakhim's feathery appendages, dragging them to the ground.

The angel struggles for freedom, frightened pleas stammered in Enochian, prayers to any who might hear. But the bindings remain, the bonds tightening and another flare of light silences their words.

A man steps forth, blade gleaming in wizened hands, mouth twisted in a rictus and eyes blazing with madness.

Later, the night is filled with blood curling screams, echoes of pain permeating the entirety of Sodom.


End file.
